No One's Watching

by Sandy Green

  “Don’t we all?” Nicki waved. “Be right back.” She hurried ahead to get Dira while we walked to the elevator.

  “Who teaches Irish dance?”

  Candace shrugged. “I don’t know his name. He was at the audition this morning.”

  “He?” I never had much luck with male dance teachers. As in Mr. Jarenko. “Was he at the table with Mrs. Sykes?”

  “He was leaning against the mirror. You mean you didn’t notice him?”

  I closed my eyes for a second, searching my memory. The guy who I hoped said my leaps were beautiful?

  Candace waved at Dira and Nicki. “Coming upstairs?”

  “Hang on.” Dira held up a finger.

  Candace pressed the up button. “Anyway, our schedules will change. We’ll have our performance classes every day.”

  “Every day?”

  “Yes.” She ticked off her fingers. “Two ballet classes, our performance class and either theory, Labanotation or non-ballet.”

  Dira and Nicki rushed to the elevator in time for the door to open. Everyone left in the hall flooded into the small area.

  “Are we still in the same level ballet class?” I squirmed.

  A familiar snicker came from the corner of the elevator. Shelly stepped from the shadow. “Not everyone.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was hard to look at your feet when they were buried somewhere below your legs. And your legs and everyone else’s were packed in the tight elevator like too many crayons in a tiny box. But that was what everyone did. Including me.

  My mouth went dry. We squeaked to a stop on a lower floor, and kids shuffled out.

  Did all this silence mean I was back in Intermediate Ballet II like last year? I worked so hard to move up. Sent my best audition tape and new photos. Mom and I celebrated when I got the letter from the camp assigning me to the advanced class. I’d forgotten about the sentence that read “Subject to Change.” How would I improve if I wasn’t challenged in the advanced class?

  The elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor, and Shelly stepped off, flicking one end of her scarf over her shoulder. “See you in class tomorrow, Dira and Nicki.” Her eyes lingered on me as the doors closed. I was so sick of her picking on me. All the time. Every day. For no reason. Was it awful of me to wish a gust of wind would catch the end of her scarf in the elevator doors?

  When the elevator moved up to the fifteenth floor, where the rest of us lived, my stomach stayed somewhere in the basement.

  Candace unlocked our door, and the four of us went inside. She left the door unlatched and turned on her CD player. Because of the filthy, immovable windows in our dorm room, it was impossible to tell if the weather was sunny or cloudy. I dreaded storms. Thunder and lightning terrified me ever since I was a little kid. In my mind, a storm brewed outside with thick, roiling clouds and slashes of lightning.

  No one mentioned I dropped to Intermediate I, so I figured I was safe from dropping two levels. Or the real reason no one said Intermediate I, was because I had dropped two levels. Won’t someone say something and put me out of my misery so I don’t have to go back downstairs and check?

  I threw myself on my bed with the aqua paisley swirl spread. I tucked my pillow into my stomach and curled myself around it, making a date with myself later to cry in the shower.

  The rest of them flopped on Candace’s twin bed, which was covered in a turquoise bedspread with pops of pink. Nicki grabbed a bag of pretzels from one of the desks and stuffed them in her mouth.

  “I thought you weren’t going to snack?” Dira raised her eyebrows. “You wanted to lose five pounds.”

  “I’m not snacking, I’m celebrating my hip-hop dance class.”

  Dira held out her hand. “Pass the bag then.”

  “What about you, Candace?” Would I be alone in my embarrassment?

  “I don’t want any pretzels now.”

  “I mean, what about your ballet class?”

  Candace shrugged. “I don’t mind being in Intermediate II. We’ll keep each other company.”

  Confirmation. Only dropped one level. What’ll I tell Mom? I clutched the pillow tighter.

  Nicki bobbled her feet on the bed. “You guys don’t have to deal with Mr. Jarenko in Intermediate II. He only teaches the advanced ballet class.”

  I sat up. “How do you know?”

  “While you were in the bathroom, we read the posted announcements. All the schedules were posted too. You and Candace have Madame Petrova.”

  I stretched my lips into a fake smile. Even though I liked Mme. Petrova, I wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, I reached for a fashion magazine and flipped through its pages, ripping out the subscription cards and letting them flutter to the floor. My heart rate slowed, and I took a deep breath. “Who’s dancing the pas de deux in Les Sylphides?”

  Candace grimaced at Nicki. “I don’t know. I don’t remember reading any names. Do you?”

  “No one.” Dira shook her head. “They dropped it from the program.”

  Ugh. The last stab. I wanted to find Mrs. Ricardo and beg her for the role. I already knew the part. I pictured Mom and Grandma in the audience, glowing with pride as I danced. Now I had to figure out how to tell them not only wasn’t I dancing a ballet piece, I was demoted to Intermediate II. And I was going to perform something I’d never trained in. Plus make a fool of myself. I curled back around the pillow, crushing it. Why did I ever want to come back to this camp anyway? It was stupid, and I was stupid for being here.

  “We might do the ballroom scene in Romeo and Juliet. I love, love, love Prokofiev’s music.” Candace hugged her knees.

  Ugh. This was weird for a ballet dancer to admit, but too much classical music gave me hives. I scratched my arms.

  The door creaked open, and Shelly stood on the threshold. She’d parted her hair in the middle of her widow’s peak and pulled it in a low ponytail at her neck. “A little loud in here. Are we having a party?” Her eyes rested on me. “Or a wake?”

  Candace lowered the volume on her CD player. “Come on in.”

  “No, thanks.” Shelly’s gaze shifted to Dira. “If you keep stuffing your face, you won’t fit in your costume. That’s how they picked the dancers for some of the solos. They’ll take yours away if you can’t fit in it.” She raised an eyebrow and stroked her scarf.

  Dira jammed her hand in the bag again. “I’ll fit in my costume just fine.”

  Nicki peered around Shelly into the empty hallway. “Somebody’s calling you.”

  Shelly laughed. “Someone’s always wanting something from me. I have to do my evening stretches anyway. By the way, Kit, are you going to write your mom about your, uh, Irish dance thing? I’ll be sure to have my mom tell her about my ballet solo. She’ll be so happy.” She tossed her scarf in Nicki’s face.

  Nicki flinched. “Pretty. Didn’t Ms. Jen have one just like it? Did she give you hers?”

  Shelly scowled. “This is new.” She flicked her eyes at me. “I don’t wear other people’s hand-me-downs.” Her quick glare dared me to say something about my outgrown dance clothes and other stuff Mom gave her. She vanished down the hall.

  Candace hopped up and pushed the door so it was barely open.

  Dira glowered. “Kit, you look like you want to scream. If it’s about Shelly, I’ll join you.”

  I relaxed my pursed lips and exhaled. The clothes weren’t important. “I hope Shelly doesn’t let my mom know I’m in a lower class and I don’t have a ballet solo until I think of something to tell Mom first.”

  “What do you mean?” Nicki pulled a strand of auburn hair and twirled it in her fingers.

  “My mom expects me to dance a ballet solo in the end-of-camp performance. She thinks the recognition will help me land an apprenticeship in a ballet company. Or a summer scholarship at one of their schools. It’s important to us, my grandma included, I get a ballet solo this year.”

  “Could be.” Dira brushed salt from the pretzels off her lap. “Scouts from balle
t companies come to the performance.”

  Scouts. I cringed. “For some reason, Shelly has it out for me. She hates me. She’s like one big tattletale. It’s so elementary school.” Each time Shelly ratted on me, Mom had that same empty, hurt face. Like I’d abandoned her. Grandma and I were the only family Mom had left, and Grandma was ancient. Why hadn’t Mom ever at least dated? She must have loved my father so much she couldn’t bear to be with another man after he died. At least, I think he died when I was a baby or before I was born. She never said. It must have been tragic. And dance related. I was positive he was a dancer.

  “Shelly won’t tell your mom, will she?”

  Nicki wandered by Candace’s desk. “Don’t worry about Shelly. What’s up with her roommate, Amy? Short hair and a giant butt. Not my idea of a ballet dancer.” Nicki studied Candace’s framed picture of her dachshund, Suzy. “This looks like my dad’s girlfriend.”

  Dira snapped a pretzel in half. “What was Shelly doing on our floor, anyway?”

  Nicki replaced the picture and took the pretzel bag back, giggling. “They kicked her off hers.”

  Dira nodded. “There’s a girl like her in my ballet school back home.”

  “There’s probably a girl like her in every studio.” Candace straightened the picture Nicki had set back.

  I sank into my mattress. Write to Mom? Is that what Shelly thinks I’ll do before she has a chance to write her mom about my news? I stared at my hands. I could guarantee her mother would tell mine. My fingers grew cold.

  “Who’s doing Don Q with Jupiter?” Candace dusted her dresser top.

  “Tiffany, the new girl.” Dira pursed her lips.

  “He’s hot. She doesn’t deserve him. Not from what I’ve seen of her anyway.” Nicki pushed herself off the bed and wandered around the room. “What’s with his name, anyway? I thought he was Jewish.”

  We took turns shrugging.

  Dira rolled the pretzel bag closed. “Mixed parents?”

  Nicki collected the subscription cards I’d tossed to the floor. “Yeah, like his dad is Zeus?”

  “That would be Saturn.” Candace met our gazes. “What? I’m into mythology. Saturn ate his children.”

  “Eww.” Nicki tossed the cards into the trash can and picked up a narrow black case on my bedside table. “What’s this?”

  “Kit’s flute.” Candace sat on her bed.

  Nicki studied the label on the case. “Kitri Othersen. I didn’t remember Othersen was your last name.”

  “It’s Danish. I know I don’t look Danish with my black hair and freckles.” There was another reason not to do Irish dance. I didn’t look remotely Irish, either.

  Nicki shrugged and laid the case on my bed. “Entertain us.”

  Why not? I flipped open my flute case and twisted the polished, cold pieces together. A gleaming, silver fire stick. I tested the airflow through the mouth hole and adjusted the tuning cork. When I reached for my blue book of songs, it fell open.

  “Perfect choice.” Nicki scooped up the open book and dropped it on the bed. “Have you ever played Danny Boy?”

  I smoothed the book and studied the notes. “A long time ago. I forgot it sounded Irish.”

  I placed the flute’s mouth hole to my lips, inhaled and played espressivo, like it said on the score. My pain flowed through the silver body and out the foot of my flute. I swayed with the music, wrapped in the notes. The badness of the day drifted away. I closed my eyes to play the final measure as the last of the song dissolved into the air.

  The girls cheered and whooped. Even though that was pretty cool, I’d made up my mind. I was going to ask Mrs. Ricardo if I could switch to another performance class. I wasn’t going to let this Irish dance duet sabotage my goals.

  Someone rapped on the partially open door. My eyes flew open. I didn’t care if we were making too much noise. Especially if it meant another visit from Shelly.

  I left my flute on the bed and hopped off, clenching my fists and jaw. Mom always insisted I be nice to Shelly, but no matter how nice I was to her, she never returned the feeling. I had no clue why.

  I threw open the door, ready to scream at Shelly. Instead, the Roman god standing before me made me lose my ability to speak.

  And I wasn’t referring to Jupiter.

  Chapter Eight

  Blake leaned against the door frame in cargo shorts and a tight T-shirt, the sleeves hiked over his shoulders. He smelled like aftershave, exotic and spicy. “I was just passing and heard the music. Who was playing?”

  I stared at him and sniffed. Definitely a fruity overtone to his scent, with a lovely woodsy smell. My mouth wouldn’t work.

  Nicki came to my side and rescued me. “Hi. Come on in. We’re having a party.”

  “Thanks, but I promised Jupiter we’d play computer games. He’s kept our scores from last summer and wants to beat me this year.” Blake jerked his head toward the elevators. His gaze rested on the flute on my bed. “Were you playing the flute, Nicki?”

  She laid her hand on my shoulder. “Here’s our little musician.”

  I stared at the top of Nicki’s head.

  “Sweet.” Blake nodded. “Have you ever done Irish dance before, Kit?”

  How did he know my nickname? How did he know my name?

  Nicki poked me.

  “No.” I rubbed my arm.

  “I had a Master Class a couple of years ago, but I’m not sure I remember too much. We’ll have to stick together.” He lifted his hand to wave. “See you tomorrow.” As he headed down the hall, an invisible cloud of deliciousness followed him.

  I inhaled a lungful and held my breath, savoring every molecule. I waved to his back.

  Nicki pulled me inside and shut the door, her mouth the size of a giant doughnut. “Whoa. Did you see his arms? He’s so jacked.” She flung herself on Candace’s bed. “How come I didn’t notice him in class yesterday?”

  “You were too interested in Jupiter. What exactly will you dance with him, Kit?” Dira asked.

  Nothing. Too bad. I exhaled. I had to get out of Irish dance. “I’ll let you know.”

  “He’s hot.” Candace hugged herself.

  Maybe there was room in Candace’s character group for me? I had to find another performance piece.

  ****

  The next morning after breakfast, Dira and Nicki went to their ballet class with Mr. Jarenko. Candace and I headed for our performance classes. First, I focused on finding Mrs. Ricardo. She drifted past the ladies’ room in a long, bibbed dress.

  “I’ll meet you after class, Candace.” I tapped her shoulder.

  Rehearsing my question in my mind, I hurried to the camp director who stooped over the water fountain.

  “Hi.” My voice shook. “Can I talk to you?”

  She stood. “Sure, dear. What is it?”

  “I’m Kitri Othersen. I’d like to switch from the Irish dance duet in the end-of-camp performance to maybe character or contemporary?”

  “Switch from Irish dance? Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “Very.” Nicki had said Irish dancers wore something like tap shoes. Mom never taught tap at her studio. Anyone can make noise with their feet.

  “We don’t like to change dancers once we’ve made our decisions.” She shuffled some papers in a folder. “We try to match up the dancer as best we can with the specific dance. Not everybody gets to perform.”

  “I realize that, but I don’t know anything about Irish dance.” I shifted from one foot to the other. “I know both the solo and pas de deux from Les Sylphides.” Had I said that? Where’d this sudden burst of confidence come from?

  “Neither one of them is available, I’m afraid.” Mrs. Ricardo straightened the sheets poking out of the folder. “And the contemporary performance class is full.”

  Blake hitched his black dance bag over his shoulder and walked out of the elevator with Jupiter. They headed down the hall.

  “Why don’t you try the class for today, and I’ll get back to you? Mr. Sea
n was keen on you and the boy he picked to be in his performance class.” She pressed her lips together. “We want our dancers to be happy and feel they can do their best. The timing isn’t good.” She shook her head. “Not good at all.”

  I bit my lip. As Mrs. Ricardo slipped away, I willed her to change her mind until my head hurt. I gave up and hurried down the hall, trying not to cry.

  I stopped dead in the doorway to the studio. Blake knelt by the mirror, tying a pair of black jazz shoes on his feet. His hair brushed over his cheeks. The male teacher, who wore a T-shirt and black pants, like Blake’s, sorted through a stack of CDs.

  My hand cramped on the door frame as I took in the rest of the studio. It wasn’t Blake or the Irish dance teacher who made me stop and stare.

  Chapter Nine

  I couldn’t force my feet to step inside. Not only was I not dancing a ballet solo, I was in class with a bunch of leprechauns.

  Something rude and small bumped me from behind.

  “Are you going in?” a little voice chirped.

  I stepped aside as a girl with a tightly coiled bun pushed into class. She joined a group of twelve-year-old girls giggling in the corner.

  The teacher motioned at me. “Come on in. I’m Mr. Sean. This is the right class.”

  Not for me. “Okay.” My feet gave up and dragged me inside as Blake lifted a hand in greeting.

  I steadied myself on the barre, studying the clump of little girls. Tiny Tots. The name of a rival dance studio in my hometown. No student over four feet allowed. It was as if they had invaded camp.

  I knelt and rummaged in my dance bag for my ballet slippers.

  “In Irish dance, girls wear ghillies.” Mr. Sean placed a sack next to me. He had a slight accent. Not like Mr. Jarenko’s. Mr. Sean’s was kind of like a song on a flute. “These are old shoes from students in my studio back home. Maybe you’ll find a pair that fits. You can use ballet slippers for now, but it’s more authentic to use ghillies.” He bent and stretched open the mouth of the bag. “There are also some poodle socks in here. Next time, wear a pair of stretch shorts and a T-shirt to class.” He motioned to the girls clinging to the barres. “Like them.”